gods & monsters
by harvelles
Summary: it starts at the ribcage, which soon decays to reveal the throbbing heart. — for rachel (supernovas), happy valentine's day!


it starts at the ribcage, which soon decays to reveal the throbbing heart. — for rachel (supernovas), happy valentine's day!

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**pairing: **massington

**prompts: **"you like your girls insane", evening stars, peppermints, & glowing lanterns

**dedication: **rachel (supernovas) at the octavian country day's valentine's day exchange

**a/n: **i'm really sorry i don't know where this story was going tbh.

**disclaimer: **i don't own the clique or any other companies/brands mentioned; plus, the title is taken by lana del rey song of the same name, and i'm pretty sure it's a movie, too. _and _susanna (deductism) helped me with the idea for the summary.

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**gods & monsters**

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At six she wishes to be a princess.

Her powder pink gown twirls around her, complete with a petticoat. The grin she gives emits ebullience. Pump clad feet sweep the floor, as lyrical as possible for a toddler, and chestnut hair waves in a concentric circle. She feels as if she's invincible enough to blow out the sun in one single breath.

"Momma," Massie breathes out, spinning to a stop to smile widely and innocently towards her mother, who's perfecting her burgundy lipstick in front of the mirror. "Momma, do I look pretty?" Fumbling in the heels, her feet guide her towards the older woman and she grabs a coral lipstick from the massive make up collection that she wants to own when she's older.

She smooths it onto her lips, innocent amber eyes softening in disappointment once Kendra barely looks at her before giving a brief nod, obviously too distracted by her own task. Taking a small step backwards, the young girl's frown lifts a bit as she soon becomes immersed in her spinning and dancing again, not even hearing her mother blurt out lamely, "Of course, honey—now, remember, be good for the babysitter while your father and I are out. We don't want to hear that you stayed up until midnight watching The Little Mermaid again, do we?"

She says the last bit sharply, causing Massie to nod quickly to please her. Content, her mother rushes out the bedroom door and down the stairs to meet her waiting husband, and the two leave with just a nod to the teenage babysitter.

Left dejectedly at the top of the stairs with just her flimsy plastic wand in hand, their daughter avoids the eyes of the babysitter and retreats to her room to watch her favorite princess movies and daydream about whatever she liked.

Hope of her own fairy tale ending was her favorite.

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At thirteen she wishes to be envied.

_One, two, _she counts as her focus flicks down the hallway, noting each positive reaction to her as she walks past. _Three, four, five_—

Her mantra stops short as it is cut off by a certain shaggy blonde haired boy leaning arrogantly against the lockers, arms folded across his chest. A smirk is plastered over his features, which she tries her hardest to ignore the appeal of. Despite his usually milky skin, his complexion turns ruddy and tanned across his lightly freckled nose and cheeks, and his sandy eyebrows are attractively thick. She runs her finger over her cheek in an attempt to rid of the approaching blush and fishes a peppermint breath freshener from her pocket, popping it in through her lips and swashing it around before greeting with,

"Derrick Harrington."

Inwardly she curses herself, because as confident as she sounds, her voice is lisped slightly from the mint. He cracks a chuckle, and Massie knows she is defeated already.

"Shut up," she hurriedly blurts out, crossing her arms, in the process wishing puberty would hit her faster already in the chest. There isn't a single person that walks by, now that she thinks about it, who she doesn't envy for at least one thing they have. Even Derrick seems to never let up his piece of confidence. In a perfect dose like his, it results in envy and a feeling of self-worth, but in a large one like her own, she now starts to realize that it's eating her from the inside out.

"I was just going to ask if you wanted to be walked to class," he holds up his hands in mock surrender, taking a step forward. She lets her eyelashes flutter against the bottom crevice of her eyelid, and locks in a breath once feeling his warm breath combine with her slightly cold one. Derrick adds, "That is, if you're willing. I'm used to you rejecting everyone."

The statement hits harder than it should.

"Walk me to class," she blurts out immediately, the intention being to prove him wrong, but he takes it the other way and lets out a chuckle. His hand is surprisingly soft against hers, and leaves a trace of electricity from the spot his thumb grazes against her palm to her chest. She glances away instinctively, as if to ignore the feeling.

And promptly, her feet fumble over each other and slam her body against a wall.

Derrick's arms encase around her waist to catch her, furthermore preventing any future klutzy mistakes. Before she can mutter out a flustered _don't look at me,_ he laughs and proceeds to mimic her fall against the same locker, far more dramatic than she would have liked.

She tells him she hates him that day, and although playful, it hurts her even more than him.

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At sixteen she wishes to be dead.

Her teeth are chattering uncontrollably from her spot beneath four thick blankets, knobby knees folded beneath her elbows. The room is dark, only lightened by a brief glowing lantern in the corner, reminds her of the world. She is completely naked. She is fixing her gaze at herself through the dark. She is thinking of how much she despises her pale, bloodless skin tone.

But even throughout the absentminded staring, she scrapes her fingernail against her now bared wrist, drawing a single bead of sticky crimson. It streaks down from the crease of her wrist to her elbow, leaving a slight wisp that bares translucent red and the smell of rusted copper and a faded mind. In some twisted way, she thinks it's beautiful.

What scares her most about the moment is that she isn't even sure if her pain is genuine. She's read blog entries online about how depressed people feel and act, and she can't help but think of them as a different species despite how wrong she knows that is. And what's worse is a part of her believes that her own sadness is just made up in her head. She had always been dubbed an attention whore, anyway, so it would certainly make sense—and then, of course, there's the possibility that she's depressed because she believes she's not depressed, but that whole concept causes her mind to spin, and she's pushed it away in fear it would make it worse.

Her rapid thinking is broken by a knock at the door, sharp and desperate.

Eyes widening, she buries herself further under the blankets in hope that the person would go away, but instead, the door lets out a creak as it opens. She sits up, frantic now, and rearranges the blanket so it is wrapped around her in a strapless dress form, secures it, and snatches a pillow from her queen sized bed to hold up in a lame attempt of self defense.

A figure soon bounds into the room, but instead of a serial killer, Derrick stands there with worry creased across his brows. Massie's pillow lowers a few inches, and her lip quivers at the sight, somehow not wondering how he had gotten into his house, which, unbeknownst to her, he was well aware of the house key hidden under the doorstep rug.

"What are you doing here?" she breathes out, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders and sitting back on the bed with her legs crossed. Even from within the house, the air is murky, and a glimpse through the window displays a looming gray sky with the occasional thunder crack. The world isn't crying, it's sobbing.

Derrick folds her into his arms without warning, arising a light gasp from her lips and a hesitant hug back.

"You didn't respond to your text," he replies. "We have this unspoken tradition of texting at nine thirty pm on Fridays, so I got worried."

Just now realizing that they did this as well, she shakes her head to rid of an arising rosy blush. For the first time in a couple hours, Massie absentmindedly ghosts a hand over her arm, and triggers scattered goosebumps. It's less than forty degrees, and predictably freezing. She certainly doesn't help the situation by wearing nothing but a blanket.

He seems to realize her lack of heat silently, and instantly, he makes sure his arms wrap completely around hers before asking, "What's wrong?"

This somehow raises her guilt even more in that she didn't have an answer. "I . . don't know. I'm just sad, and that's selfish because I don't have a reason."

"Not having a reason is a perfectly good reason."

She can't help but snort in amusement. "I'm going crazy."

"And I love you for it."

Even though for the past year and a half those words have made their way from the back of his throat to his lips to hers, they still result in a rare deep blush from Massie. No matter how much she could act like she doesn't, she still turns bashful at affection like everyone else. She pauses to craft a response, and soon says, "You like your girls insane, then?"

"I like my girls _completely_ insane."

She smiles a toothy smile.

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At twenty she wishes for a sense of security.

The two of them sit side by side, squished into one of the plush armchairs in their San Francisco apartment. It's a content silence, thankfully, and Massie can even feel the affection flowing between them, filling her with the urge to press every part of his body with hers. Her lips tingling, she rests her chin lightly on his tanned shoulder, letting her gaze absentmindedly land on the cloth of his tank top. There is music playing in both of their minds, the same tranquil song.

Until Derrick breaks the silence with an abrupt two word phrase,

"Marry me."

Her face contorts, and she immediately rambles on impulse, "_Marry _you? When? Where? Who would go? Do you even have a ring?"

"Yes. Now. The first chapel we see. Us. And no, sorry," he answers slowly, expertly responding to each question. And despite his hesitant expression at the last statement about not having a ring, she slams her lips onto his.

They climb into his rusted, vermillion pick-up truck and begin driving without thought. Her head flows in resemblance to a river and she can't help but think that this is the logical solution for everything she had been worriedly anticipating earlier—everything, in other words: the future. The truck passes multiple chapels, but none are perfect, and she gives a sparse shake of the head at each one. Minutes turn into hours, and she knows that it's getting so old but Derrick doesn't complain once.

The drive ends after eight hours and thirty-two minutes, and she finds herself at an elopement wedding chapel in Las Vegas at midnight on a Sunday.

"It's perfect," she exhales with a smile, red lipstick contrasting against her pearly teeth. Throughout it all, she would never have expected herself to be excited to be eloped in Sin City, but here she is, heart thumping out of thrill and a bit of fearful anticipation.

She hops out of the car and smooths down her faded yellow sundress before flicking her eyes up to gaze at the building. Its antique, gothic feel is homey and just how she envisions a wedding, so she turns towards Derrick with a wide grin. He seems as elated as she does, which helps her mood even more.

Clutching her hand, he pulls her inside to see an Elvis Presley impersonator sitting behind the desk of an empty office. The pair muffle their laughter, soon going through with scribbling their names across marriage papers.

The ceremony is short—merely fifteen minutes—and they stand across from each other atop the roof of the same building while reading typed up vows from an index card. She giggles when he pretends to place an imaginary ring on her finger, and after he states _I do _proudly, she follows suit. The wannabe Elvis waiting beside them soon orders the kiss, and while doing so Massie can't help but think of how she has earned her wedding under evening stars.

Their future doesn't exist yet, but they're certain it holds each other.

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thanks for reading as well, and i hope you like it, rach — review?

lily

ps: if anyone doesn't understand the summary (because it's a bit confusing i guess), the ribcage is meant to protect the heart, so it shows that massie's heart is now exposed and open.


End file.
